In principio: Wolf At The Door

Posted on Sat Jul 4th, 2026 @ 8:25am by Master Chief Petty Officer Julian Trent

2,798 words; about a 14 minute read

Mission: Prologue
Location: USS Tanagra, The Battle of Wolf 359
Timeline: 2367

USS Tanagra, Wolf 359, 2367

The deck moved under Julian’s feet hard enough to throw him sideways, one shoulder striking the bulkhead before he managed to catch himself with his free hand. The lights went out for half a second, came back red, then dimmed until the corridor ahead was lit mostly by emergency strips and the uneven flash of damaged panels. Somewhere inside the wall, something snapped and hissed, followed by the sharp smell of scorched insulation and hot metal. Julian pushed himself upright, tightened his grip on the phaser rifle and kept moving.

He had been aboard the Tanagra for nineteen days. Long enough to know how the Tactical office took its tea, which console on the secondary bridge needed a harder touch than regulation approved and that the turbolift nearest his quarters made a faint clicking noise between decks four and five. Not long enough to know every access route by instinct, or which voice belonged to which crewman when the comm system broke speech into static and panic. He had not even properly unpacked. He still had half a duffle bag of civilian clothes, a pair of nice shoes and half a bottle of something strong and amber he had picked up on a station. He hoped that bottle survived this.

The ship lurched again, this time accompanied by a sound that came through the deck rather than the air, a deep metallic groan that Julian felt in his teeth. He stopped at the next junction, bracing one boot against the floor as he checked the corridor signs through the smoke. Deck seven…and great, forward access was blocked. Not to panic, but the emergency bulkheads had sealed two sections away, though the status light above the nearest one flickered between green and a warning red that suggested the ship had stopped being certain what was open and what was not. And Julian didn’t exactly want to discover how it was to breathe vacuum.

His combadge chirped against his chest, then spat static before a voice forced its way through. “Security team three, respond. Casualties reported outside auxiliary environmental control, section nine. Possible structural collapse.”

Julian tapped the badge with two fingers, his breath coming too fast despite every effort to keep it level. “Trent responding. I’m one junction aft,” he said, raising his voice over the alarms as another impact ran through the ship. “Who else is coming?” The answer dissolved into interference. He caught something that might have been a name, then nothing but static and the distant mechanical repetition of the evacuation alarm. “Brilliant,” Julian muttered to himself, because talking made it feel marginally less like the universe had narrowed to a damaged corridor and a weapon that might be useless. He checked the rifle setting by touch, went to the nearest emergency supply point, selfishly took the medical kit because you never knew what was around the corner, then started forward again.

Problem was, Julian was armed with too much information. He knew what the Borg were, and what they did. A hastily thrown together briefing that half the SecTac department snoozed through had told what sounded like nightmare stories about what the Borg did. They did not negotiate. They did not take prisoners. They took people apart and put them back together as something else. Every shadow at the end of a corridor carried the possibility of transport distortion, black armour and pale skin, machinery driven through flesh while a voice announced that resistance was pointless.

So basically…thanks Starfleet, for the nightmares. And now for the living nightmare.

The door into section nine had jammed halfway open, leaving a gap too narrow to pass through without turning sideways. Julian slung the phaser rifle across his chest and put both hands against the edge, feeling the mechanism resist beneath his palms. The emergency release had failed, the panel beside it dark except for a single blinking diagnostic light, and somewhere beyond the door someone was shouting for help.

“Stand clear,” he called out, though he had no way of knowing whether they heard him. He got his fingers into the gap, set one boot against the frame and pulled. Nothing happened at first, because why would it? Then the door shifted with a grinding protest, metal dragging against metal until the opening widened enough for him to force one shoulder through, grimacing at how it made his uniform scrape against his skin. He pulled the medical kit with him, regretting it for an instant as it made his shoulder ache at an awkward angle, but he pushed the discomfort aside.

The corridor beyond looked as though something had taken hold of the ship and twisted. One bulkhead had buckled inward, wall panels spilling cables and broken conduit across the deck. A support beam had come down diagonally near the environmental control access, trapping two crew beneath it while a third knelt beside them, one hand pressed against a wound high on her own thigh. The air was hazy with dust and smoke, each breath carrying the taste of metal.

Julian ducked through the doorway and brought the rifle back into his hands, sweeping the corridor before he moved closer. Nothing. No drones. No green transport flare. Only three people who looked worse for wear.

“Security?” the injured woman asked, her voice tight with pain.

“Close…well…almost. Tactical,” Julian replied as he crouched beside her, eyes moving over the wreckage and the two people beneath it. One was conscious, a young Bolian crewman pinned across the legs, his blue skin gone pale beneath the dust. The other did not move. “Close enough today I suspect.”

The woman gave a breath that might have been a laugh if the ship had not shuddered again beneath them. Julian reached for the medical kit at his belt, pulled out the dermal regenerator and handed it to her. “Try stopping the bleeding and seal it up,” he said, then shifted towards the fallen beam, setting the rifle within reach rather than letting it leave him entirely. “What’s your name?”

“Mara Venn,” she said, following his instructions with both hands despite the tremor running through them. “Ops, Environmental systems.”

“Ah, so actually right now far more useful than I am.” Julian glanced towards the conscious crewman. “And you?”

“Crewman Pell,” the Bolian managed, his breathing shallow and fast. “Can’t feel my feet.”

Julian swallowed, because there were several possible reasons for that and none of them improved the situation. “Probably just the beam being an inconsiderate bastard on your nerves,” he said, keeping his tone light enough to give Pell somewhere else to look. “We’ll move it.”

Venn stared at him. “We?” she asked, a bit surprised, before her eyes lowered to where she was moving the dermal regenerator over her thigh. The wound was closing up, slowly.

“Yes,” Julian said, checking the position of the beam and the damaged supports around it. “I can lift, you can tell me what angle I need for best leverage.” He gave her a nod and a charming smile and he heard Pell make a sound that sounded like relief.

The beam was too heavy to lift properly without equipment. One end had lodged against the damaged bulkhead, while the other lay across Pell and the second crewman beneath it. Julian found a length of broken conduit among the debris, tested it with both hands and wedged it beneath the beam at the strongest angle he could manage. Venn advised even as she worked on her leg, directing him when his tactical brain didn’t take into account the strength of the conduit he was using.

The ship shook again. A panel blew out farther down the corridor in a burst of sparks and coolant steam, and Julian dropped instinctively, one hand closing around the rifle before his mind had caught up with the movement. For half a second he was certain the Borg had arrived. He could already see them in his head, stepping through the smoke without urgency because urgency was for people who believed they might lose.

Nothing came. Which...was good? His heart hammered hard enough to hurt. Julian stayed crouched for one breath, then another, forcing his grip to loosen before anyone noticed how tightly he was holding the weapon. “Still breathing,” he said, mostly to himself, before returning the phaser rifle to the deck and getting both hands around the conduit.

Venn had seen the fear in him. He knew she had, because her eyes stayed on him for a second too long before she shifted onto her uninjured knee and braced her shoulder beneath the higher end of the beam. She did not tell him not to be afraid. That would have been insulting under the circumstances. Instead she asked what he needed.

“On three,” Julian said, setting his feet. “We lift enough for Pell to pull himself clear.” He looked at the Bolian, who nodded through clenched teeth, then drew in a breath. “One. Two. Three.”

They pushed. The conduit bent almost immediately. Julian felt the strain across his shoulders and down his spine, every muscle in his arms shaking as the beam rose by centimetres. Venn cried out beside him but kept lifting, and Pell dragged himself backwards using both elbows, face twisted with effort. For a moment Julian thought it was not going to be enough, then Pell’s trapped leg came free and he collapsed against the deck.

“Clear,” Pell gasped, clutching his ribs for a moment then patting his chest down, clearly looking for puncture wounds.

Julian let the beam drop. It struck the floor with a force that jumped through his knees, and he stumbled back, breath tearing at his throat. Venn lowered herself against the wall, her face grey beneath the emergency lighting. Julian grabbed the medical tricorder and the rifle, moving to the other trapped crewman and checking him for life signs.

Nothing. He had known it when he had seen him, which was why the Bolian had taken priority. But here they were. He checked again because he…still had hope? Maybe some higher power was tricking him, but no…still nothing.

The dead man wore gold. Human, perhaps Julian’s age, perhaps younger. There was dust caught in his eyelashes and blood at one ear, but otherwise he looked as though he might wake if someone said his name loudly enough. Julian did not know it. Nineteen days aboard and he did not know it.

His combadge erupted into static again, followed by fragments of overlapping voices. The fleet channel had become a mess of emergency calls, shouted coordinates and ships reporting failures faster than anyone could respond. Julian heard the name of another vessel, then the words core breach, then silence where hundreds of people had been speaking.

He froze. There had been a ship there. Somewhere beyond the Tanagra’s damaged hull, there had been a ship full of corridors, irritating replicators, bunks with clothes left on the floor and people who thought they had another shift coming. Then someone had said core breach, and the channel had gone quiet.

Venn was looking at him again. Pell had dragged himself upright against the wall and was trying not to look at the dead man.

Julian lifted his rifle and forced himself back into the next useful thing. “We’re moving,” he said, checking the route behind them. “Pell, you’re not walking. Venn, can you help me carry him?”

She nodded, even though she still couldn’t walk properly. The regenerator had done good work, but it couldn’t account for blood loss and it was not an osteo-regenerator either. Who knew what bits of skeleton had been broken, fragmented, or chipped and cracked.

“You can say no,” Julian added, and she gave him a look sharp enough to prove she had some life left.

“So can you,” she said and moved to his side, shaking her head.

“Apparently neither of us has the sense...” he said and looked at Pell, who was watching them with wet eyes. “Always did want to be the hero coming to the rescue though...so really, you’re giving me all my fantasies, Pell. I think I owe you.”

They got Pell between them, one arm over each of their shoulders, and started towards the jammed door. Every step was awkward. Pell tried to keep his weight off Julian and failed, Venn limped badly enough that Julian could feel the rhythm of it through the three of them and came to the conclusion her leg was compromised, and the rifle kept striking against his back where he had slung it to free both hands. He hated having it there. Hated that he could not reach it quickly. Hated even more that he was calculating how quickly he could drop Pell if he had to.

They had nearly reached the doorway when the lights changed. Red emergency illumination vanished beneath a wash of sickly green from the corridor ahead, bright enough to throw their shadows behind them. Julian stopped so abruptly that Pell almost fell. For one second, nobody breathed.

His hand was already moving towards the rifle. He eased Pell’s weight towards Venn, pulled the weapon free and brought it up against his shoulder, aiming through the narrow opening. His mouth had gone dry. Every lesson he had ever received about Borg drones ran through his head at once, none of it offering anything useful beyond aim for vulnerable components and do not allow physical contact.

The green light flickered. A damaged power conduit spat sparks across the next junction, its diagnostic display pulsing emerald as overloaded systems tried to reroute through it.

No transport beam. No Borg. Just his paranoia and fear.

Julian lowered the rifle by degrees, his breath leaving him in a short, ugly laugh that held no humour. “That colour should be illegal during a red alert,” he said, and Venn made a strained sound beside him that might have been agreement.

They forced themselves through the damaged door and into the next section. A medical team found them two corridors later, or what remained of one, a nurse and two crewmen carrying emergency kits between them. Pell was transferred onto a stretcher. Venn tried to argue that she could continue helping until the nurse looked at her limp and told her, with impressive calm, to shut up.

Julian stood aside while they worked, rifle held across his chest, and realised he was shaking. Not in a dramatic way…His knees did not buckle. He did not drop the weapon. It was in his hands, a fine tremor running through his fingers and up his arms, turning the front sight into something that refused to stay completely still. He breathed deeply…and closed his grip until the shaking stopped.

The deck moved again. Somewhere far below, something exploded, followed by a drop in the ship’s engine vibration so sudden that the silence beneath the alarms felt wrong. Julian looked towards the nearest bulkhead as if he could see through it, past damaged decks and torn hull plating to the Borg cube outside. He imagined its size, the weapons cutting through shields that had been designed to withstand anything Starfleet understood. He imagined the Tanagra breaking apart around him before he had time to notice.

He was scared. There was no cleverness that made the fact smaller. No joke useful enough to turn it aside. He was twenty-nine years old, standing in a wounded ship surrounded by the dead and the injured, and he did not want to die. He did not want the last thing he ever heard to be an alarm. He did not want his body to disappear into space, or burn with the ship, or stand back up wearing Borg machinery and no longer care that Julian Trent had once existed.

The nurse looked up from Venn’s injury. “Petty Officer, we’ve got reports of people trapped near the aft torpedo magazine. Route is blocked, requested assistance.”

Julian stared at her for a moment, the fear still moving through him, cold and alive. The rifle remained steady now. That was something. “Which way, love?” he asked, giving her a grin that felt like it was part of his face and also part of someone else.

She rolled her eyes at him, but there was no real disapproval in it. Whatever she thought of his lack of protocol, it hardly mattered now. She pointed towards the port access corridor, where the lights had failed completely beyond the first junction.

Julian adjusted the rifle strap, checked the charge and started running.

----

 

RSS Feed